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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27581918">look at what we’ve made into a normal way to be</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm'>procrastinatingbookworm</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Hello, I'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same? [15]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hollow Knight (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Autistic Knight, Autistic Quirrel, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Gen, Hugs, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sign Language, Suicidal Thoughts, ghost is signing in auslan if anyone was wondering, no one is okay but they're trying their best</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:17:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>832</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27581918</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Quirrel tries to find his balance.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Quirrel/Tiso (Hollow Knight), The Knight &amp; Quirrel (Hollow Knight)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Hello, I'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same? [15]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957039</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>look at what we’ve made into a normal way to be</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Quirrel knows that storming off isn’t being fair to Tiso. Even through the knot of worry making itself at home in his stomach, he knows it’s unhelpful, rude, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurtful</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Quirrel tries not to be hurtful if he can help it. There’s enough hurt in the world already.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, walking away is the </span>
  <em>
    <span>least </span>
  </em>
  <span>hurtful of his options, in reaction to </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> exploding husk of an announcement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tiso isn’t like Quirrel. Like most ants, Tiso’s middle set of limbs was vestigial from hatching, curled close to his abdomen, shed with his final molt. He’s only ever had the two arms—he’s never adapted to amputation before. If he loses the arm—</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When</span>
  </em>
  <span> he loses it. Quirrel isn’t going to delude himself, even if Tiso is. It’s the only real option. Even if it eventually healed, it would always be weak. Tiso would need to learn to use his off hand anyway. At least with amputation, there’s the option of a prosthetic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel sits down heavily on a mostly-flat bit of rubble, pulling his cleaning cloth and vial of oil out of his pack, settling himself down to polish his nail. It’s been a while since he’s had the time, so there’s an actual point to the ritual this time, rather than simply calming his nerves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he rubs the grime away from the blade, his reflection reveals itself. There’s a spatter of the darkness that Ghost and Holly bleed speckled across the side of his face, some of his own haemo at the corners of his mouth, and tearstains down each cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No wonder Tiso had been staring at him with such dismay in his expression. He’s a mess. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, Quirrel turns his nail over so he won’t have to meet his own gaze, working the oil against it in smooth motions. There’s a small nick in the blade, up near the grip, probably from a pooly-angled parry. He’ll have to go see the Nailsmith soon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looks up from his nail and finds Ghost standing in front of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unthinking, Quirrel drops his nail and gathers them into his arms. They flinch, just slightly, then relax, short arms wrapping around him in turn. He’s not sure which of them is shaking. They might both be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My friend,” Quirrel says, his voice breaking strangely. “You’re just the sight my weary eyes wished to see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghost pulls away from him and settles back to their feet, still close enough that Quirrel can’t feel the chill bleeding off them, but far enough that he can see them hold one hand in front of their chest, palm turned toward themself, claws spread, and wave it, followed by a scribbly gesture with the tip of a claw. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hurt?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel laughs softly, trying to find control of his voice. “No, my friend. Simply very tired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghost points to themself, then curls their hands so just the first claw on each is extended, tapping the two together. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Me too. </span>
  </em>
  <span>They gesture over their heart with one splayed-flat hand, then hold their hand palm-down in front of them and stick a claw of their other hand up behind it, like something popping up from the ground. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Living unexpected.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Grief rises up in Quirrel’s throat, tight and all-encompassing. He swallows it down, but the words still rasp and catch when he speaks. “You’re not alone in that regard, at least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghost nods. They press their thumb to their first claw and drag the sign sideways, then make a fist with the first claw up, shaking it beside their head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t worry. </span>
  </em>
  <span>They tap their head, then their cheek. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thoughts only.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Quirrel grasps, vaguely, for something to talk about that won’t make his head swim. “I didn’t know you knew sign,” he says. “You didn’t seem to before.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghost taps their claws together for a moment, then starts to sign, a viciousness to their motions. </span>
  <em>
    <span>New-old skill. Knew before. Father took away. No voices.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Before Quirrel can react to that, Ghost holds out their palm, showing Quirrel a brand, uneven on their palm-pads, shaped like a three-pronged trident. </span>
  <em>
    <span>King’s brand.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Bouncing on the balls of their feet, they pull back their cloak to reveal what looks like a charm </span>
  <em>
    <span>embedded</span>
  </em>
  <span> in their chest, just over their heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Void heart</span>
  </em>
  <span>, they sign. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ghost, dear,” Quirrel says. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghost points at themself, then makes a grasping gesture in the air. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I win.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>At a loss, Quirrel bends down to pick up his dropped nail, leaning it against the wall of the house. “I’m glad,” he says, at length. “I took no issue with your silence, but I’m nothing but happy to hear your voice. Or see it, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghost stands there a moment longer, rocking back and forth, then lurches forward, wrapping their arms around Quirrel, face pressed into his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He can feel the stickiness of the bandage on their face, the icy chill of their tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s nothing he can do but hold them, and it almost, </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost</span>
  </em>
  <span> feels like enough.</span>
</p>
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